A Bargain With the World
by CaptainSammish
Summary: Displaying that trademark streak of Winchester stubbornness, Sam refuses to even consider that Dean is gone forever and sets out to get him back. This is a story about Sam's journey from Dean's death to his resurrection.
1. Prologue: Carry On

A/N - I own nothing Supernatural-related. The title of my story is from 'Death or Glory', by the Clash.

* * *

Dean wouldn't die; he couldn't die. He was invincible. He had no Kryptonite. But then Sam looked into his eyes and it was like looking into the end of the world.

"_Sam, that's not Ruby."_

_The realization was stark and awful on Sam's face. He had hesitated, when the demon had been a little girl. There was no hesitation this time. He turned and swung with precision and wide-eyed intent, but he was not fast enough._

Every time Sam had lost people close to him before – Jessica, his father – Dean had been there to carry him through it. Now Dean had gone too, and there was no one left to make it worth going on.

_She was so close. When she forced her lips against his, he expected the faint tingle of something metallic, or maybe the rotting taste of sulphur. Instead, she tasted like nothing._

He couldn't breathe. The tiny, sad animal sounds he was making seemed to be coming from someone else, and he wished he were screaming. It would have been much more worthy of the enormous hurt inside of him.

"_Sick 'em, boys."_

_He screamed then, like every wound inflicted on Dean was being ripped out of his own flesh. In a way, he wondered if it wasn't._

Someone came into the room and stopped. Sam didn't even look up. His own fate seemed to diminish in importance in a world without Dean in it. The half-expected attack never came, though. He indifferently noted that the intruder was very still for a long time.

_Death was sudden and blinding. Then it passed; he realized that he was still alive at the same moment as a surge of anger drove him to his feet. He would destroy Lilith. He would hunt her until the end of the world._

"Sam. I'm sorry." Bobby's words were mostly a whisper. Sometimes his voice crackled up through it, and Sam could hear the grief there. He didn't respond. He didn't know how to share his own heartbreak yet.

"_Back! I said, back!"_

_She had ceased to be terrifying. Now that she had taken the only thing in his world to be terrified for, she had put him in control. _

"_I don't think so."_

This was worse, far worse, than anything else Sam had experienced. After Jessica had died, and his rage over her loss had burnt out, Sam had found that he could remember a time before her. He had even thought that he might have been happy, then. It had given him hope that he could be happy again.

_Keep fighting. Take care of my wheels. Sammy, remember what dad taught you. Okay? And remember what I taught you._

He could not remember a time before Dean.


	2. Chapter One: He Ain't Heavy

The night seemed impossibly dark. With Dean's dead weight between them, Sam and Bobby made painfully slow progress towards the Impala, but they were both on autopilot and neither one protested the effort. It wasn't until they reached the vehicle that Sam realized that the neighbourhood was completely deserted. Apparently, all of the demons who had stood guard over Lilith had gotten out of town when she had.

Bobby had realized instinctively that Sam was not going to let go of Dean, and he certainly wasn't going to lay him on the ground. Thus, he let Sam take Dean's full weight, the younger Winchester's hands bunched in his brother's jacket, and went around to the trunk. The tarp that he and Dean had once laid Sam on was still neatly tucked into the corner, carefully folded as though someone had known that they would need it again. Bobby returned to Sam and jerked open the back door of the car, laying the tarp out and smoothing the extra length over the edges of the seat. He glanced fleetingly at Sam as they eased Dean into place, thinking of another night like this one. How many times were they going to put him through this?

As an afterthought, Bobby slid a hand into Dean's jacket pocket, looking for the car keys. They were not there. He eased himself out of the vehicle and straightened to see Sam opening the driver's side door, keys in hand.

"Sam," he said quietly, holding out his hand, palm up.

Sam only looked at him, as though Bobby were someone else; someone he didn't quite know. "She's Dean's," he said after awhile, his voice tight and quiet.

"I know, kid. I'll be careful with her."

Sam looked at Bobby's out-stretched hand for a moment longer before surrendering the keys. He looked briefly lost, until Bobby nodded pointedly at the passenger side of the vehicle.

The two of them got into the car without speaking further. Sam immediately leaned back and closed his eyes, his hands resting open on his lap as though he did not know quite what to do with them. Quickly, Bobby fired up the engine, stepped on the clutch, and shifted into first. He was eager to be gone.

It didn't take long to get out of town. Bobby had intended to stop at the first motel they saw, but he passed four before he finally pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a small mom-and-pop operation. Sam didn't open his eyes when the Impala rolled to a stop and Bobby killed the engine. Figuring that the youngest (_and last_, he thought, and it hurt his heart) Winchester was unlikely to go anywhere and leave Dean alone, Bobby left Sam in the car and went into the motel to book a room.

When he came back five minutes later, Sam still had not moved at all. Tucking the room keys into his pocket, Bobby went to Sam's side of the vehicle and opened the door.

"Sam?" he said, unsure if the kid was sleeping.

Sam didn't open his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this, Bobby."

Bobby knew what he meant, but pretended that he didn't. "It's twenty yards to the room, Sam. He ain't heavy."

"He's my brother," Sam quipped tiredly, finally opening his eyes and looking as though in one lifetime, he might have smiled.

Bobby shook his head. "You always did have the worst sense of humour."

Sam got out of the car then, and he and Bobby manoeuvred Dean out of the back seat and across the parking lot. There was a brief moment of difficulty as Bobby fumbled around in his pockets for the keys, but then the door was open and they were inside and laying Dean on one of the beds.

Muttering that he would back, Bobby returned to the Impala to retrieve the Winchesters' supply of salt. Easily locating it in the trunk, he hurried back to the room and laid down salt lines on the threshold and windowsill.

Protection in place, Bobby went to the night table and switched on the bedside lamp. He flinched almost imperceptibly. Sam's death had been neat; lying on his back, no one would ever have known what had happened to him. Dean's corpse was a mess. Noticing that Dean's eyes were open, Bobby moved to close them, but Sam would not let him. The younger Winchester understood better than anyone what it was like to live mostly in the darkness and to have one last, furious desire not to die in it.

"You should try and get some rest," Bobby said into the awkward silence that followed. Sam ignored him, refusing to move from Dean's bedside. "Well, you can't stand all night," Bobby muttered, and he crossed the room, grabbed the hard wooden chair that constituted the only furniture in the room beyond the beds and the television, and dragged it back to Sam. Sam didn't even look at it.

"Sit," Bobby said shortly. Maybe it was the tone in his voice, or maybe it was because Sam was so busy being knee-deep in grief that he didn't know what to do with himself without being told, but Sam sat instantly.

"Good. If you're not gonna sleep, then I will." Bobby went into the bathroom and shut the door, trying to decide how to make do without toothpaste. He had left his own car, and thus, his supplies, in the town they had just left. He hadn't had much of a choice, though. Sam was in no state to drive, and he wouldn't have dreamed of asking the kid to leave the Impala behind.

Sam, meanwhile, was only half-registering what Bobby was saying. He heard the gruffness in Bobby's voice and far from taking offense, he welcomed the sound of someone else's heartache. He knew that just as his own grief manifested itself in long silences and violent nightmares, Bobby's made him furious and irritable, as though everyone else in the world was somehow at fault for what had happened. It made Sam feel a little better that someone other than him missed Dean; that someone other than him knew that Dean had been here, and now he was gone.

Of course, what made it harder was that Dean hadn't died; not really. He had been dragged down to hell, where he was now undoubtedly suffering horrors that Sam couldn't even imagine. Sam felt a brief stirring of anger when he thought about the deal from this angle, because when he had been dead, at least Dean had known that he was at rest. Now Dean was putting Sam through the pain of knowing that not only was his brother gone, but wherever he was, he was in torment.

That was when the realization struck him. _I'm wasting time,_ he thought. _Every second I spend grieving for him and not doing everything I can to get him out is another second that he's hurting._

When Bobby came out of the washroom, Sam was on his feet with a look in his eye that Bobby was not particularly fond of.

"What's going on?" he asked suspiciously.

"I have to go," Sam replied.

"Go where?"

There was a brief pause. "I have to get Dean out."

Bobby sighed. "I'm sure he'd appreciate the sentiment, but you can't get him out. Nobody gets out."

"Yes, I can," said Sam.

"Don't think people haven't tried, Sam," Bobby said, growing exasperated.

"This is different."

"Like hell it is."

"No – it is. Listen. I know who holds Dean's contract, and I know how to kill her." Sam looked so earnest that Bobby felt awful shooting him down, but the kid needed a wake-up call.

"Okay," he replied, "but you don't know where she is – and she could be anywhere on the planet by now, Sam, don't fool yourself that she's still hanging around these parts – and if you've got a solid theory on how to kill her, I'd like to hear it. I think you might've noticed that your last attempt didn't go so well."

Sam flinched. Bobby shook his head, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry, that was outta line. But you – all of you – have got to stop sacrificing yourself for each other. It's not doing anyone any good."

"What about the Colt?" Sam said stubbornly.

"What _about_ the Colt? It's _gone_, Sam."

"What if I could get it back?" Sam pressed.

"Well, good luck with that," Bobby said, his disbelief clearly audible in his voice. "What makes you think she won't just kill you on sight, anyway?"

Sam was silent, looking at his old friend. He had wondered how much to tell Bobby, and now he knew with certainty that he couldn't ever inform him about Lilith's failed attempt on his life. There were some things that couldn't be explained, and Sam didn't want to try. Bobby was the only person left who had 

any faith in him. He found he didn't have the courage to destroy it. Wordlessly, he turned and headed for the door.

"Sam." Bobby's voice stopped him, but he didn't turn around. "We need to – bury Dean."

"What if..." Sam suddenly sounded very young. Bobby was glad he couldn't see his face. "What if he – needs it – when he gets back?"

Bobby sighed, feeling weary right down to his bones. "Listen, kid. Even if you do find a way to get him back, that could take months. In the meantime, I'm sure as hell not setting a corpse up in the guest room at my place, and I _think_ people'd notice if you drove around with him in the back seat of the Impala."

"Yeah," agreed Sam tonelessly. The vulnerability was gone; now he sounded empty. Bobby liked that even less.

"But we'll do it tomorrow," Bobby said firmly. "I'm beat and if you want to set out on this big epic quest of yours, you're gonna need some sleep, too. We'll get up first thing and do it, and then you can go." _If you still want to,_ he thought. He was hoping against hope that Sam would sleep on it and realize how insane it was.

"Yeah," said Sam again, precisely the same way he had said it before.

Bobby looked at the back of Sam's head for moment longer. Then, he turned to the bed without Dean on it and picked up one of the pillows and the comforter. "You can sleep on the floor," he said. Sam finally turned around then, looking faintly startled. "I'm old," Bobby explained. "When you're old, you can have the bed."

He could have sworn that he saw Sam's lips twitch, but it may have been a trick of the light. The youngest Winchester's mouth was set in a grim line as he took the pillow and blanket from Bobby and set up camp on the floor next to Dean's bed.

"Good night," Bobby said, switching off the lamp. Sam didn't reply.


	3. Chapter Two: I Sought My Brother

When Bobby awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the neatly-folded comforter with a pillow perched on top. Sam was already gone. He experienced a brief moment of disappointment before he looked across at the other bed and saw the figure lying on it.

_Sam wouldn't go without Dean,_ he thought.

He sat up, looking blearily at the clock. It was barely seven, but he felt so gritty and sore from a night of restless sleep that he was itching to get up. As he dressed, he noticed that Dean's face was free of blood and that he wore a large windbreaker and overlong pants (_Sam's pants,_ Bobby realized) over the brutalized clothing he had died in. Apparently, Sam had been busy.

Intent on discovering what Sam was up to now, Bobby left the motel room, careful not to disturb the salt line along the threshold. The morning outside was beautifully sunny and quiet; the kind of morning that Bobby usually liked to enjoy from his porch with a cup of coffee in hand.

He looked across the parking lot and saw the Impala still parked there. Swiftly scanning the lot and the veranda that wrapped around the motel, he noted that they were deserted and set off around the side of the building.

Behind the motel lay a large field that, upon closer inspection, proved to be a swamp. Across it, a sparse line of trees marched ahead of a dense forest. Bobby squinted in the bright sunlight; sure enough, someone was moving around just beyond the first thin row of trees.

Bobby set off across the swamp, muttering vulgar words every now and again as water seeped into his shoes. He reached the other side in minutes and stopped, surveying the scene before him.

Sam was shoulder-deep in a dark, raw hole in the ground, shovelling mechanically, as though he had been doing this for hours without stopping and his mind was somewhere else. Despite himself, Bobby was impressed with the size of the hole.

"You start diggin' that this morning?"

Sam didn't pause in his shovelling, though he sounded a little out of breath. "No. Well. Maybe. I was here for a long time before the sun came up."

"Did you sleep at all?" Bobby asked.

"Uh – what? No. I – didn't want to dream. That's my thing, dreaming. You know, my nice little exchange with the Yellow-Eyed Demon. I got nightmares and _visions_, he got my mom" (Sam had started digging faster, thrusting his shovel furiously into the dirt) "and Jessica, and my dad, and like that wasn't enough, he got me killed and because I got killed, Dean got killed, so if we're counting score, I'm adding Dean to his tally, too. You know, for all of that from me, he should've thrown in a TiVo or something."

Alarmed, Bobby was staring at Sam, one eyebrow cocked. This was _not_ the way that Sam typically handled grief. _He snapped,_ Bobby realized. _He was at the edge and losing Dean pushed him off._ Sam seemed to sense Bobby's unease and finally stopped digging. When he put the shovel down, he blinked and looked down at his hands. They were raw and slippery with blood.

Puzzled, he turned to Bobby. When he saw the expression on his fellow hunter's face, he looked faintly horrified, as though the wrongness of his own behaviour had only just struck him.

"I..." He began, at a loss for words to explain himself.

"Have you lost your _mind_?" Bobby demanded, sounding so furious and for a moment, so like John Winchester that Sam took a step back.

He realized that the question was not a rhetorical one when Bobby continued to glare at him and the silence stretched too long.

"That'd be one way of handling this," he said quietly.

"Well, pick a better one," Bobby snapped.

Sam didn't respond. A moment of silence elapsed before he picked up his shovel and started digging again with the same intensity as before. There were tight lines of pain around his eyes from the way the rough handle of the shovel was treating his hands, but he didn't give in to it.

Bobby watched him for awhile, hands in his pockets. His fury ebbed away, bit by bit, and the deep, melancholy ache returned; it was his own private sadness that Sam would always have to carry this, his losses and his grief and his guilt, and he would have to carry it alone.

"You want a hand with that hole?" He asked, after awhile.

"I'm almost done."

Bobby wasn't sure how much time passed before Sam deemed the hole complete, tossed his shovel out, and then, with Bobby's help, hauled himself out after it. The youngest Winchester surveyed his work for a moment, his face expressionless. Then, he turned and started walking back across the swamp. Bobby fell in behind him.

They didn't speak as they walked back to the motel, nor as they lifted Dean and carried him to the door. Bobby had had the foresight to pick a motel that wasn't busy, and it paid off; there were two other cars in the parking lot, but their owners were nowhere nearby. Bobby did a quick visual sweep anyway, and finding no traces of human activity, he led the way out of the room.

With Dean between them, Sam and Bobby crossed the swamp once more. When they reached the other side, they lay Dean gently down on the ground. Sam vaulted down into the hole and together, he and Bobby levered Dean in after him. Sam crouched down beside the body, which wasn't easy because the grave was so narrow, and looked hard at Dean.

"I'm coming for you," he said softly. "Please hold on."

He rose, and was about to lift himself out of the hole again when he remembered something. Reaching down, he gently pushed aside Dean's collar and took out the amulet that he had given Dean so many Christmases ago.

"I'm going to take this," he whispered. "But I'm going to give it back. The next time I see you. I swear."

With that, he took Bobby's offered hand and climbed out of the grave. Bobby had only to glance at him to know that he didn't want any words said; no prayers offered.

_To him, this isn't a funeral,_ Bobby thought, as Sam shovelled earth over his brother. Instead of inspiring his faith in Sam, it cemented his earlier belief that the youngest Winchester had lost it. _And why shouldn't he? Christ, I'm surprised he lasted this long. The people he loves drop like flies._ He kept these thoughts firmly to himself, however. There was no need to say any of this to Sam, who for obvious reasons would not take it well.

"What now?" Bobby asked, when at least they patted down the last layer of earth.

"Now I go after the Colt," Sam replied.

"You got any idea how hard it's gonna be to track that down?" Bobby asked.

"Hard? Really? Guess I'll call it a day, then."

It took Bobby a moment to figure out that Sam was being snide. "You watch your tone with me, boy. I ain't your brother."

"Sorry," said Sam, though he didn't much sound it. He set off across the swamp, walking as quickly as he could without running. Bobby followed, though he had to pick up his pace to keep up with the much taller Winchester.

When they reached the parking lot, Sam did not hesitate. He went to the Impala immediately, but turned to look at Bobby when he reached it. His old friend hadn't moved from where the swamp met the asphalt.

"Are you coming?" Sam asked shortly.

"If you're planning on giving me a lift back to my car," Bobby replied.

"I'm going that way anyway," said Sam. He held up one hand. "And you have the keys."

Bobby reached into his jacket pocket and took out the keys, which he tossed to Sam.

"I'll go check out. Try not to leave without me."

Sam picked up on the sarcasm but chose to ignore it. He tossed his shovel into the trunk and went back to the room to check that they hadn't left anything. By the time he returned to the car, Bobby was already there. Within moments, they were pulling out on to the highway.

They drove in silence for awhile. Sam drove too quickly for Bobby's liking, passing any vehicle they encountered and leaving them in the dust. The older hunter let it go for awhile, but he spoke up when they cleared a tractor-trailer coming in the other direction by a mean six inches.

"Hey, Sam, you want to try not driving like a moron?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked tonelessly.

"I mean you're doing a buck ten – didn't even know this car would _do_ a buck ten – and you can't help Dean if this time tomorrow, they're sweeping shards of your skull off the dashboard."

"Sorry." Sam slowed down, but only marginally.

Despite the speed at which Sam was driving, it felt like it took ten times longer than it should have to return to the place where Bobby had left his car. The silence in the vehicle was oppressive, and he worried nonstop about Sam and his crusade. Bobby had resigned himself to the fact that there was no talking the kid out of it, but that didn't mean that he thought it was anywhere close to a good idea. When they finally reached his car, Bobby paused before getting out.

"Where are you going to start?"

"Well, Bella's got a place in Queens. Think I'll go there, see if she keeps business records or something."

Bobby nodded. "I'll put out the word, see if it's turned up anywhere or if anyone's heard anything about it."

Sam gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby climbed out of the car and said, before closing the door: "You take care of yourself, Sam. And _call me_ if you run into any trouble."

Sam watched him walk over to his own car and get in. Then, as Bobby drove off, Sam flipped open the glove compartment and riffled through the junk inside until he found Dean's tattered copy of a map of the continental U.S. Unfolding it, he scanned it until he found his present location, then tracked the web of highways that led to New York.

Once he knew his route, it was a matter of pulling out onto the open road. Sam wasn't unhappy to leave this place behind him.


End file.
